


Flavors

by ninamazing



Category: Pushing Daisies
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-21
Updated: 2007-10-21
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:16:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninamazing/pseuds/ninamazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Emerson Cod rolled his eyes. He rolled his eyes until they hurt, until he was sure the rods and cones themselves were throbbing; he rolled his eyes until he thought he might be staring at the inside of his sockets for the rest of his life. And still, the two people sitting across the table from him absolutely would not stop.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Flavors

**Author's Note:**

> For hjea and madkrazyghetto, who told me so.

I. _Rhubarb-strawberry_

Kelly DeSantis (the accountant) was twenty-five years, one hundred seventeen days, three hours, and forty-eight minutes old. She came to the Pie Hole nearly every Tuesday after work; Tuesday was payday. Though the Pie Hole's constant supply of affordable deliciousness caused her figure to become slightly more rotund than she was used to, Kelly DeSantis always insisted to herself that nobody lived twice. If this body was a one-way ticket anyway, she might as well go ahead and use it.

Standing at the counter, Olive Snook caught sight of DeSantis out of the corner of her eye, and began to serve two slices of rhubarb-strawberry before Kelly even asked for them. It was just like any other Tuesday.

Only not quite. As Kelly leaned back into her booth, stretched her wrists, and let out an epic sigh, her eyes drifted past the towering trays of desserts and into the blinking stainless steel of the kitchen. There was a girl leaning into the upright freezer — or a woman trying to seem like a girl, with the use of pigtails and a canary-colored dress that swirled at the bottom — staring at the floor, twining her hands together with deep concentration. A man in an apron — the piemaker — was mixing something in a bowl, and he suddenly speared a plump orange piece of whatever-it-was and held it out to the woman in yellow. She raised her eyes to the piemaker's, and licked the peachy dollop off the fork.

Kelly had never seen the piemaker smile at anybody before.

 

II. _Blueberry_

After two weeks straight of routine cleaning, Manuel figured he could fill an entire dumpster with the rolled-up sheets of plastic wrap he'd noticed in the trash. He wondered, while swiping blueberry sauce from a half-empty bowl with his finger, if the piemaker had developed an obsession with sealing Tupperware.

 

III. _Cherry (with lattice top)_

The Womens' Charity Charity Women had asked the Pie Hole to cater their Picnic for the Cure every year since its inception. Twenty-five cherry pies, they said, would be scrumptious enough to keep their donors happy after the five-mile walk, and red enough to remind all participants that breast cancer prevention was the cause of the day.

"You don't think I should tell people that death doesn't have to be the end?" Chuck asked. "It would be inspiring. These women need to see that breast cancer doesn't always win."

"They know that already," Ned stammered. "There are plenty of survivors and medical science is advancing at a leopard's pace. I think if we put our faith in stem cell research and the good people at the American Cancer Society —"

" _I_ think we should just slip in that you're living proof there's more to life than we already know," Chuck interrupted, tugging at his arm. Ned looked at his sleeve as though her bare fingers would set it on fire.

"It's not a good idea for me to permanently raise the dead, Chuck," he muttered. "I think in the end the balance isn't really in anyone's favor."

"It was a good idea when you did it with me," she protested.

"That wasn't a good idea. That was an all-consuming idea. Not necessarily good, not totally bad, just an irresistible juggernaut that wasted everything in its path."

"A hurricane," said Chuck.

"A hurricane," Ned agreed. "A hurricane that I'm supposed to be feeling guilty about."

"Well, you're also supposed to not touch me," Chuck retorted, and she placed a tiny kiss on the tip of his shoulder. Ned closed his eyes for a moment, but she pretended not to see.

 

IV. _Plum_

Emerson Cod rolled his eyes. He rolled his eyes until they hurt, until he was sure the rods and cones themselves were throbbing; he rolled his eyes until he thought he might be staring at the inside of his sockets for the rest of his life. And still, the two people sitting across the table from him absolutely would not stop.

"I'm wearing tights," Chuck was telling Ned, with a daring little wink. "There's a reason I wore tights today."

"I'm just saying it's dangerous," said Ned, studiously avoiding her eyes. "It's like playing with matches. You think if you just lick your finger and stick it into a birthday candle you'll be fine, but then all of a sudden somebody knocks you into the person holding the lighter or you keep your finger there a nanosecond too long, and suddenly you've got a giant red bruise on your hand that doesn't go away. Dead skin cells. Trauma. From burning."

There was a thump under the table that sounded a lot like Chuck's heel smashing into the back of the booth.

"Don't — please don't do that again," Ned squeaked. Chuck just grinned, and the grumpy private investigator detected the smug, sneaky sound of ribbed cotton on khaki.

Emerson was convinced he just wasn't rolling his eyes enough. He reverted to a glare, and stabbed at his pie in a way he fervently hoped was threatening.

 

V. _Pecan Spice (with freshly whipped cream)_

The piemaker had been searching for a quart of heavy cream for fourteen minutes and thirty-eight seconds. He _knew_ the store's groceries had come the day before.

"Mmm," cooed Chuck, the delight in her voice turning to rapture, and now he wasn't sure if he was dreaming.

"Mmm," she said again, and he realized Sleeping Beauty was through the archway, at one of the tables in the as-yet-unopened café area.

"Chuck?" he called, poking his head out of the door, almost afraid of what he'd see. She was still wearing his navy plaid pajama set, and she was hugging her knees to her chest as she spooned out syrupy goodness from a bowl. Her eyes were closed.

"Chuck?" he said again, more gently. She opened her eyes.

"Have you ever even _had_ honey and cream?" she wanted to know. "Ned, I think I've just gotten into heaven. Have you ever _tried_ this?"

"No," he said, a slow blush rising in his cheeks for no reason he could fathom. There was a little bit of it on her cheek. Right where he'd touched her.

"I'd ask you to lick it off me, but" — she grinned and stuck her tongue to swipe it up — "well, there's the part where it's lethal, and in any case I'm doing the job myself."

"Well, that's ... helpful," he noted faintly.

"Sit," she told him, pointing to the booth across from herself. "Using the same spoon as me won't hurt anything, will it?"

The piemaker supposed it wouldn't.


End file.
